


what if we lose it all

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon's standing there, a bottle in one hand and a determined look on his face.</p>
<p>"Hey," he says, and holds up the bottle. "You wanna?"</p>
<p>And it's on the tip of Sid's tongue to say <em>no, I don't think so</em>, but there are tense lines at the corners of Jon's eyes and a tightness to his shoulders and a rawness to his lips that make it obvious that he's been biting and chewing at them for a long while, and Sidney finds himself blurting out, "Yeah. Sure," just to see the minute loosening of Jon's expression.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Or: Sochi doesn't end the way Sidney wishes it would.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	what if we lose it all

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt: "Could you do a Sid/Tazer ficlet where they lose in the Olympics and mourn their loss with a bottle of Jack in their hotel room?" I could have gone for Vancouver, I guess, but.
> 
> I apologize in advance for any fail re: tournament brackets and scheduling or rooming arrangements ajkdlfs.
> 
> Also worth noting: Not part of Valhalla 'verse.

They lose.

They don't lose badly—it's dead even until the last ten seconds of regulation, when Kesler sends a pass right to Kane's tape, and Kane snaps it right over Luongo's glove—but it's a loss.

They lose, and then they play Sweden and they win, but they win the bronze, so at the heart of it all, it's still a loss.

It's disappointing. Sid knows that no one's actually disappointed in him as a person or a player or a leader; he knows that his last goal in the Sweden game, a shot right through Lundqvist's five-hole on a beautiful feed from Sharp, was why they medalled at all—but it _feels_ like it's his fault. It feels like he should be out there, celebrating, comforting the guys on his team, talking to Luongo, making sure that they know that one lucky break for someone else doesn't make their own achievements worth anything less, because they really mean the world.

He's the captain, and that's what captains are supposed to do. It's what Jon Toews has _been_ doing for the past hour or so since the game ended, because Jon's a really good A and would've been a damn good captain.

And Sid—Sid tries, but it feels like his heart's in pieces, and hard as he tries to stay blank, it must show on his face. After a while, it seems more like his teammates—Tanger, Stamkos, Bergeron, the Staals, even Luongo—are trying to reassure _him,_ rather than the other way around. And that's not right.

He grits his teeth and tries harder, pushes through the ache. Sidney's a hockey player, after all. That's what hockey players do.

—

It's another hour before they get back to the hotel, but it feels like a lifetime. Sidney is stretched thin, skin too-tight and cracking in places every time one of his teammates thumps him on the back or smiles at him, high on the win, or tells him that they're so proud to have played with him, to have won a medal with him, even if it's not the one they were aiming for.

He escapes from the lobby, where some of the others are talking about going out for drinks, and makes his way to the elevator. His hands shake when he reaches out to press the up button, and he stares at them so intently that he doesn't even notice someone's behind him until a hand touches his shoulder and he startles away.

It's Jon.

"Sorry," he murmurs apologetically. "Thought you heard me."

Sidney shrugs uncomfortably, his hands finding their way into his pockets. “It's okay,” he says. “Wasn't paying attention.”

Jon nods, absently watching the lit-up floor indicator above the elevators. “Hm.”

Sidney fidgets with the fabric of the inside of his pockets, feeling awkward and obligated to continue a conversation that he doesn't want to have.

"You're not gonna go out with the others?" he finally asks. "I heard—Flower said they were going out for drinks or something. You're not?"

Jon lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Nah. Not really feelin' it tonight. You?”

Sidney's hands form fists in his pockets. “No,” he mumbles as the elevator doors open and he steps in. “Not feeling it, either.”

—

The ride up to their floor is silent and, for Sid, painfully awkward. He's glad when the doors open and they can step out into the hall. Their rooms are in the same corridor, Sid's a small single at the very end of the block, Jon's a double a door down.

They say goodnight at Jon's door, exchanging brief nods and polite smiles, and Sidney hears the lock click shut even as he fiddles with his own key card, which hasn't worked right since the day he got to Sochi.

He's just gotten the green light to flash when he hears the door swing open again.

Jon's standing there, a bottle in one hand and a determined look on his face.

"Hey," he says, and holds up the bottle. "You wanna?"

And it's on the tip of Sid's tongue to say _no, I don't think so,_ but there are tense lines at the corners of Jon's eyes and a tightness to his shoulders and a rawness to his lips that make it obvious that he's been biting and chewing at them for a long while, and Sidney finds himself blurting out, "Yeah. Sure," just to see the minute loosening of Jon's expression.

—

They end up in Sidney's room because Jon has a roommate, and neither of them particularly wants to potentially deal with Giroux's endless chirping if he stumbles in on their drinking party.

Not that it's a drinking party, because it isn't. Drinking parties, in Sidney's admittedly limited experience, don't usually involve two guys sitting across from each other at a writing desk, fidgety and awkward, as they make small-talk.

"Where did you even get this?" Sidney asks eventually, pulling the bottle of Jack Daniel's to himself, pressing his fingers to the label like it's the most interesting thing he's ever touched. He's pretty sure Jon wouldn't have had time to buy it between the game and now, which means that he would've had it already.

Jon shrugs and takes the bottle out of Sidney's hands, twisting open the cap and beginning to pour a few fingers of whiskey into the glasses Sidney took from the bathroom.

"Kaner," he answers. "Pretty sure, anyway. Found it in my room the day before the US game."

Sid pauses with the glass tipped against his lips and sets it back down carefully.

"So you have no idea who it came from," he says flatly.

Jon rolls his eyes, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he raises his own glass. "C'mon, man. Who else would send me a bottle of American alcohol the day before our game?" he asks, and takes a sip.

It's a good point, but Sidney still stares suspiciously as Jon winces a little at the burn of alcohol before judging it safe to drink his own.

—

"I hate losing," Sidney mutters to himself after he finishes his first glass and reaches out to pour himself another one.

Jon snorts.

"We didn't lose," Jon replies, but there's something a little bitter, a little sing-song to the way he says it, like he's repeating what someone else told him more than once but that he doesn't believe in the slightest. "We won. Bronze. That's _awesome."_

"Who told you that?" Sid can't help asking. He takes another sip of the whiskey and tries not to grimace; he's never really enjoyed hard liquor as much as everyone else seems to.

"Sharpy. Duncs and Seabs. Staal." Jon frowns. "My mom."

Sidney decides to be kind and not chirp him or make mom jokes, but it must show on his face, because Jon rolls his eyes and tells him to fuck off.

—

They're both three glasses in and getting a little buzzed when Jon picks up the bottle and his glass and migrates to the floor, his back to the foot of Sidney's bed.

"More comfortable here," he explains, pouring himself another glass.

Sidney follows him without comment, settling in beside Jon, far enough away that they aren't touching, but close enough that they _could_ , with just a little bit of effort.

They don't, though.

—

"I didn't really want to be captain," Sidney blurts out a few minutes later, then takes a big swallow of Jack because he _really_ didn't mean to say that.

Jon seems to freeze beside him.

"No?" he asks, and it sounds mild, but also not.

"No," Sid admits. "Well. Yes. I—did. I did, but I also didn't. I like being captain, I do, but I also—sometimes, I hate it. I hate what it puts on you. It's a letter, but it's also _everything_ , you know? I just want to play hockey. I don't want to think about the rest of it. I mean, I'm honored because it's the Olympics, but I... I almost wish they'd picked someone else." He looks at Jon. "I wish they'd picked you, maybe."

Jon's face goes shuttered. Sid looks away and hears the deep inhale, exhale, from beside him.

"You did a good job, Sid," Jon says flatly. "You're a great captain."

Sidney nods. "But you wish they'd picked you, too."

The shrug Jon gives him is answer enough.

—

It takes them most of the bottle before they even mention it.

"Who d'you think'll win?" Sid asks. He's surprised to realize that he's basically leaning against Jon by this point, arms pressed together from shoulder to elbow.

Jon hums. "Dunno. It'd feel better if we'd lost to the guys who won it all, but Kaner'd chirp us forever if he won gold."

"No he wouldn't," Sid says, because he's pretty sure Kane's not that callous. Then again...

But Jon's face goes weird and he says, "No. He wouldn't," like it kind of hurts or something, and Sidney has to say, "If I had to choose, I'd pick Russia."

Jon makes a thoughtful sound. "Malkin?"

Sid nods. "Winning gold in your own country—it's special. Geno deserves to know how that feels, y'know. I always figured, if we couldn't win it all, I'd want them to."

"I guess," Jon says. "Ovechkin, too?"

"Sure," Sidney says, but his expression must give him away because Jon laughs for the first time all night.

"You're a fucking liar," Jon says, and Sidney smiles.

—

They finish off the Jack and decide against breaking into the mini-bar, which contains about five different brands of vodka, all of them with Russian labels that neither Jon nor Sid can read.

"I wish," Jon says, at around two in the morning, after they've switched to water, and stops.

Sidney looks over at him when he doesn't continue, the sheets rustling against his head as he shifts to peer into Jon's face.

Jon is loose and drunk, pliant where he's slumped against Sidney's bed, all sad and determined, and for some reason, it makes Sid feel a little lost, a little set adrift. He knows what Jon wishes, and it makes him wish, too. Makes him want.

So he says, "Yeah," and twists himself so that he's facing Jon, and leans over, one hand going to Jon's neck, curling, feather-light, against his jaw. He takes a moment to touch, to marvel at the feeling of skin against skin, before he leans down and brushes his lips against the corner of Jon's mouth. They stay like that, breathing, a kiss that isn't, until Jon shifts his head and fits their lips together _right_.

And even though he initiated it, Sid finds himself thinking that it's a bad idea—it's such a damn bad idea. They're at the Olympics, in fucking _Russia_ , where there are basically laws against this, and they're massively popular rival captains in the NHL besides, but—

But Sid wants so much that his teeth ache. He wants to not be alone, he wants to have won gold, he wants and he wants and he wants.

"I want," he mumbles into Jon's mouth, drunk-honest, and Jon's fingers tighten where they're pressed against Sidney's shoulders. "I want you."

Jon's eyes are so dark, so intent as they sweep over Sidney's face.

"It's a bad idea," he says, low, even as he brushes their lips together again.

"Yeah," Sid says. "I don't give a shit."

He feels the curve of Jon's smile more than he sees it, tastes the way he replies, "Me neither," as he presses back in.

—

(In the morning, the win still feels like a loss. But Jon leans against him a little as they watch the gold medal match, and squeezes his knee when the game's over, and brushes their fingers together when they're standing at the podium listening to another country's anthem play, and that, at least, feels like a win.)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](ifonlynotnever.tumblr.com)!


End file.
